


Chasing Stars

by Legorandia



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Beforus Ancestors, Body Horror, Gen, Illustrations
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-09
Updated: 2014-04-01
Packaged: 2018-01-15 02:06:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1287193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Legorandia/pseuds/Legorandia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The scene in the engine block is straight out of an ancient horror tale. Biowires hang from the ceiling, from the walls, some crusted over with age and neglect while others are fresh and shining, new growth from the original cables. There are a few computer terminals to the side however most of the wires are turned inwards, twisting around and connecting to a figure seated inside the control console.</p><p>Set during the time of ancestors on Beforus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. [USER] Discover

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In just 9 days it'll be a year since I first started building this universe! I never thought I'd get here with it, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless.
> 
> My headcanon regarding helmsmen on Beforus is that they did not exist, as it would have been deemed too cruel under Feferi's culling laws. The lack of psionic-fueled machinery would make them slightly less technologically-advanced than their Alternian counterparts, and the fact that their culture was more "nurture" focused rather than "space conquest" meant they had less reason to leave their planet.

  
5378.dim_4.3e  
73|237_11:: Status  
Navigation at 22.463%  
Propulsion at 17.246%  
Stabilization at 21.102%  
73|237_11 operating at 20.270% 

Power below 25%  
Disconnect and recharge

  


* * *

  


Your name is Tesela Esodin, and you are completely fucked.

Really, there’s no other way around it. Do not pass “Go”, do not collect 100 Beforan dollars. Your ass is headed straight to the slammer, and you doubt you’ll ever get to see the pink light of the moon again.

Honestly, it would probably be a comfort if you were really going to jail. It’s a hell of a better option than being brought to see Her Imperial Pretentiousness— _oops_ , you mean _Her Benevolent Majesty_ —ever would be. When the messenger drones showed up at your hive and presented you with a royal summons you’d nearly pissed yourself; you aren’t sure what you did to attract her personal attention, but whatever it was it must have been fucking terrible.

Well, okay. You may have a tiny inkling as to what this might be about. You hadn’t thought it would be a big enough deal to actually warrant a visit to the _goddamn empress herself_ though—surely you aren’t the first yellowblood to apply for a highblood occupation, and anyway, your marks are damn amazing enough that you’re convinced they’re going to make an exception for you. There are plenty of neuro-surgeologists, after all, but there are none with your first hand experience in psionics.

You even waited an extra two seasons before applying just to make sure you didn’t stir up any trouble during the twentieth sweep observance of the Final Lecture. But no, apparently any time is a bad time to try to slip between caste lines if the parchment with your name scrawled on it in royal tyrian is any indicator.

As the drones lead you out of your hive you wonder just how hard it would be to short out your own brain with your psionics and end this trip before it even begins. _Not hard at all_ , you muse as you’re ushered into an impressively nondescript vehicle as if you’re some kind of ambassador. You can feel the stares of your neighbors as they watch with curiosity; briefly you wonder if you should get someone to take care of your lusus for you, but you quickly dismiss the idea. She’s smart enough to feed herself for a while.

You hope to troll Jegus that ‘a while’ is all you’re gone for.

  


* * *

  


A few nerve-wracking hours later you find yourself arriving at the port. You were expecting to be taken to the land-based palace so it’s a bit of a surprise; stepping out into the salt scented air you stare in apprehension at the various ships that are currently docked until your eye catches sight of the one you were afraid of.

The flagship of the Empress.

“ _Fucknubs_.” You mutter under your breath.

From what you know from your schoolfeeds she used to have a much more impressive ship. No one really knows what happened to it, though there are rumors that it was sunk during some kind of rebellion after the Advocate’s assassination. The new ship is nothing to look at—it’s huge, but aside from the size and the royal insignia flying overhead it’s really no different from any of the other ships at port.

There are rumors about this ship as well, rumors that it’s fueled by some unseen, unique power source that the Empress is fiercely protective of. If you dig deep enough the tales start becoming outright disturbing—certain retired crew members have sworn that sometimes, late in the day, you could hear the sound of moaning from the control block, and that every now and again when the engine started overheating you would smell the faint scent of burning flesh.

You’ve always tried not to think too hard about these things, so of course that’s all your thinkpan will focus on as you approach the vessel. That, and the fact that there are so many damn seadwellers around you think you might just vomit on one of their gaudy violet cloaks. There are a couple aboard the Empress’ ship but they’re outnumbered by land dwellers in various shades of green and blue. You don’t see anyone else in the yellow range, which could be why a whole slew of eyes look your way as you’re brought aboard the ship. You stare the hell right back, glowering until a blue blood you hadn’t noticed approaches you from an alcove.

“Tesela? Tesela Esodin?”

You regard him briefly before giving him a cautious reply. “That’s me.”

“Wonderful.” He fidgets with his gloved hands as he talks, rubbing them together nervously. “Her Benevolent Majesty has been expecting you. Please, come with me.”

Your original escorts are heading to another part of the ship, apparently satisfied that they’d delivered you successfully, and so you nod and follow the cerulean blooded troll. He’s different from the rest of the crew, definitely not a sailor; based on his outfit and the goggles covering his eyes you figure he’s probably a machinist of some kind. You follow him through the alcove and down a hall, passing multiple doors before reaching an intricately detailed door at the very end of the passageway.

He raps his knuckles against the wood and you take a deep breath, letting it out again slowly. This is it. You’re about to meet the motherfucking Empress.

“She’s here, your Majesty.”

Her voice, muffled yet clear as a jingle hollow, turns your blood cold.

“Bring her in!”

The door opens and he steps through, gesturing for you to follow. You try and don’t succeed; gritting your teeth, you take another deep breath before entering into the most brightly colored block you’ve ever been in. There are waves of translucent fabric cascading from the walls in every color of the hemospectrum, plus many more. Swatches of cerulean and jade cover the nautical peeping panes, leaving the entire block cast in a greenish blue tint that you suppose is probably reminiscent of being underwater. There’s a small amount of furniture, the most prominent of which is a large throne centered against the back wall that currently contains the most powerful troll on Beforus.

You’re 10 sweeps old, an adult by both legal and physical standards, your skin having darkened to its adult hue one sweep earlier. You’re as tall as you’re going to get, save any extra inches you acquire as your horns continue growing, however standing before Her Benevolent Majesty you feel like a three foot tall wriggler again. Her horns alone are nearly as tall as you are, long, massive, and meticulously maintained throughout centuries of life; her eyes shine brightly with royal tyrian, a color so rare that you feel unsettled when you meet her gaze with your own incredibly common yellow-filled eyes.

“Thank you.” She doesn’t look away from you as she speaks to the blue blood, looking at you as though she’s staring straight through your thinkpan. “Leave us now.”

You catch his nod out of the corner of your eye. “Right, yes, I’ll just be ah… going.”

_No, fuck, don’t leave me alone with her._ You want to reach out and grab him as he passes behind you on his way to the door, but you’re trapped under her gaze, eyes locked with hers in an unspoken challenge of fortitude. If you look away, you’ll lose. You’ll appear weak, and above all others you _do not_ want the Empress to think you are weak.

A few seconds later the door is closed and you’re alone in her block. Her eyes remain on yours for a moment longer, before a grin slowly forms on her face and she blinks. You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding as her demeanor shifts to one far more relaxed; you aren’t sure if that was some kind of a test or if she was just fucking with you, but whatever it was you’re pretty confident that you passed.

“Tesela Esodin?” Her voice is bright and cheerful, different and yet unnervingly similar to how she’s always sounded over newsfeeds. You swallow before responding.

“Yes, your majesty.”

She nods. “I would like to take a moment to apologize, first of all. Under normal circumstances I would never dream to inconvenience one of your blood, as close as you are to the bottom of the spectrum. It is not my place to give you orders but merely to make sure you are living as comfortably as possible for the short duration of your time on our planet. So, please do accept my apology, and know that I truly had no other choice.”

Your lips press together tightly, jaw clenched as you hold back a rebuttal, the same one you always hold back because it will never do you any good to vocalize it. Instead you let yourself wonder what exactly it is she needs from you—more importantly, why she’s decided she needs it from you in particular. That alone makes you curious enough to force out a polite response.

“It’s uh… okay.” You swallow and force yourself to unclench. “How can I—I mean… what… can I do for you?”

Her smile is sweet enough to give you a fucking cavity. “You’ve recently put in an application to become a surgeologist, yes?”

“…that’s right.”

“That’s a big ambition.”

Your teeth grind. “I suppose it is.”

“According to your file you’ve passed all of the required schoolfeeds rather impressively. It also stated that your preferred specialty is in psionics, am I correct?”

“Yes.”

She shifts, sitting up straighter and giving you the first serious expression you’ve seen since you entered her presence.

“I would like to offer you a job, Tesela.”

You stare at her, uncomprehending, the words bouncing around in your brain like a spherical recreation object. The Empress of Beforus… is offering you… a job? You’re here because _the Empress_ wants to _hire you?_

You blink once. Twice. You realize you should probably say something back to her but your pan is stuck in a loop trying to process the fact that the _motherfucking Empres_ s wants you to work for her.

Licking your lips, you open your mouth to try a response. “I…”

“Before you accept—” she interrupts, holding a finger up to stop you. “Know that this position would be highly classified. In fact, your very presence here aboard my ship is classified. If any of this is found out, it will be seen as high treason against the empire and will be dealt with accordingly.” Her brow furrows, and you realize with a start that she is genuinely concerned that you’re going to turn her down. _She_ , the most powerful troll on the planet, is worried that _you_ will reject her. “Are these terms acceptable for you?”

_What in the frondfondling fuck does she want me to do??_ You know you should be weighing your options calmly and rationally, but you aren’t even sure if your mouth can form proper works at the moment. If you don’t accept… well, you would be going right back to waiting for the career bureau to decide if your delicate yellow blood is worthy of the position you want. If you _do_ accept you have no idea what you’ll be agreeing to, but…

_But…_

She read your application. Who knows how many others she also read, how many highbloods and midbloods she passed over before deciding that you are exactly the troll she needs. Even if you don’t know the specifics, even if it scares you to death thinking that you’ve been specifically chosen to do something that she thinks no one else can, she’s offering you a chance to do the work you want to do.

If you say no, you may never have that chance again.

Fuck it all.

“What kind of job?”

She smiles again, flashing rows of shining white seadweller teeth.

“That, I believe, would be best shown rather than explained.”

Rising from her throne she steps towards you, skirt flowing around her thighs and braided hair trailing along on the floor behind her. You expect her to head to the door you came in through but she turns the other direction instead, walking over to a second door on the other side of her chamber that you hadn’t noticed before now.

“Follow me.”

The pathway is dark with winding stairs heading steadily downwards, taking you deep into the heart of the ship. There are more doors leading to other areas as well as various other passages breaking off here and there, but she doesn’t turn until the floor levels out and you realize you’ve reached the lowest level, the very bottom of the ship. It’s a bit unsettling realizing that you’re below the water now; this far down you can barely hear the crashing of the waves against the hull. It’s quiet, eerily so, as if the other trolls onboard are suddenly miles away.

“No one else comes down this far,” she speaks suddenly, giving you a start. Her voice echoes throughout the empty hall. “No one else is allowed except for me, and now you. You see, there’s something this ship has that no other ship has. Something that would really be best to remain a secret for now. It’s not that I don’t trust my people, no—I love my people. I just don’t think they would understand.”

She stops before a heavy metal door. You can hear the hum of the engine and figure that must be where you are, this far down. Grasping the door handle she looks at you, eyes shining in the dim light of the hall, before sliding the door to the side and gesturing for you to enter.

You do, and you scream.

The scene in the engine block is straight out of an ancient horror tale. Biowires hang from the ceiling, from the walls, some crusted over with age and neglect while others are fresh and shining, new growth from the original cables. There are a few computer terminals to the side however most of the wires are turned inwards, twisting around and connecting to a figure seated inside the control console. A figure in the same shade of yellow as your symbol.

There is a living troll wired into the ships engine.

You fall back against the wall, hand covering your mouth as you breathe heavily, trying not to scream again. The wires—alternating red and blue—have burrowed deep into his skin; your stomach turns as you realize you can actually see them _under his skin_ and oh fuck you’re going to _be sick_.

Her Pretentiousness enters the engine block and gazes at him with a fondness that’s typically reserved for quadrantmates. She trails a finger across one of the crusted over wires and you dry heave, stomach clenching painfully as it threatens to eject the leftover grubloaf you had for breakfast.

“This,” she says in a voice full of pride and adoration, “is the B110n11c.”

Everything about him is red and blue and yellow and _awful_. Occasional yellow sparks shoot up the cables, power drawn straight from the psionic center of his pan. His face is partially obscured by some kind of a helmet, but from what you can see of the lower half he appears to be completely nonresponsive. _He’s a battery,_ you realize. _A living, breathing battery fueling this goddamned ship._

“Now, I know what you must be thinking.” She is talking again but you barely hear her, all parts of your mind screaming at you because _they strung up a psionic and turned him into a battery fuck fuck fuck who even does shit like this??_ “I had no part in his… _installation_ , so to speak. When I first boarded this ship he was already here, exactly like this. I took it upon myself to take control of the ship in order to personally ensure he was treated well.”

The last thing she says penetrates your thoughts, and something snaps inside you.

“Treated… well…?” Your voice is laced with venom, all fucks you possibly gave about not offending the Empress thrown right out the nearest gander pane. You’re shaking with disgust and rage, unable to tear your eyes off of the unfortunate being in front of you.

“This control block… the… the _wires_ …” Bile rises up in your throat. You swallow it back and force yourself to continue. “Nothing in here has been maintained in _sweeps_. There’s _rust_ , a-and _mold_ , and it’s under his fucking _skin_ , and have I mentioned that you have a _living fucking troll jacked into your engine??_ ” You pause, taking a shaky breath before finally looking over at her. “How long has he been like this?”

She seems unphased by your change in demeanor, shaking her head and responding back, “I don’t know. Many sweeps.”

“How long has he been… yours?”

“It’s been nearly twenty sweeps now.” She raises a brow at you as though she’s just now realized that you’ve become less than ass-kissingly polite. “I don’t appreciate your tone.”

“I don’t appreciate a member of my bloodcaste being wired into a computer and used as a fucking fuel source!” You bite back. She purses her lips for a moment before sighing.

“This is the fastest ship on the planet. More reliable than any steam powered vessel. We’ve sailed from pole to pole, from the eastern coast of the continent to the west—”

“Siphoning the psionic power from his cranial lobe!”

“—but we have begun slowing down.” She finishes, giving you a sharp look as if daring you to interrupt her again. You’re sorely tempted to but you’ve run out of things to say for the moment, so you just glower back and wait for her to continue.

“I have extended his life far beyond the regular lifespan of your caste, but he is still losing power. Numerous technomechanics have been hired to examine him, and not one could pinpoint the problem. The last suggested that it might not be a technical issue at all, that the problem might be biological in nature.

“That is why you are here, Tesela. I would like you to examine him, see if there’s something wrong with him physically that is blocking the… whatever it is that generates psionic energy. If there is, then I’d like you to fix it.”

Your eyes turn back towards him, and under the disgust and the horror you can’t help but feel a wave of pity.

You _hate_ this situation. You hate everything about this control block and why you’re here, hate that she’s lured you in and shown you this secret and now you’ll never be able to go home, never be able to do anything else again until you’ve helped him.

You _desperately_ need to help him.

“What if I fail?”

“Then you return to your life, and forget that this ever happened.” You scoff at her response. You’re pretty sure the sight of this nightmare is permanently burned into the back of your gander bulbs—it would take a whole lot of psychic power to make you forget about this, and you don’t see any other psychics around but the two of you.

“I won’t threaten you.” She’s looking at him again with softness in her eyes. “I understand that there are some things that cannot be done. I just can’t give up, not until I know I’ve tried everything.” Turning she heads back to the door, stopping before she enters the hall. “I’ve arranged for us to remain here at port for one week. If you do not see yourself succeeding by that time, then you’re free to leave. If you _do_ , then any belongings you wish for will be brought on board, and you will remain as a member of my crew for as long as it takes to repair him.

“You’ll find an empty room one level up and to the left. It’s yours to claim—it should have all of the basic necessities.”

“What’s his name?” You ask suddenly as she starts to leave. She pauses and smiles sadly over her shoulder.

“I wish I could tell you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tesela - http://legorandia.tumblr.com/post/79005447090/fantroll-ive-been-getting-to-know-for-the-past
> 
> To see (outdated) designs and headcanons for the ancestors that will appear in this story, check here - http://legorandia.tumblr.com/post/51445748244/beforus-ancestors-master-post-aradia-tavros


	2. [USER] Examine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains some eye trauma.

73|237_11 operating at 19.579% 

**WARNING**  
Power below 20%  
Beginning auto-disconnect sequence

Processing…  
…  
…  
…

//Error//  
//Unable to disconnect//

 

* * *

 

You’re left alone with him. Her footsteps fade away, and you’re alone. With him. Leaning back against the wall you slowly sink to the ground, knees drawing to your chest as you stare up at the troll that is the ship’s engine. Your long coat envelops you and you tug it around yourself further, wrapping yourself in the familiarity of it.

_What do you feel?_

You can hear the hum of psionic power all around you, feel it prickling at your own, miniscule bolts of potential energy jittering across the surface of your horns. The entire control block is filled with it, charged with energy that’s been seeping out of him for who knows how many sweeps. At this level it’s harmless, stable. Numbly you realize that he could probably take this whole ship apart should he ever become _un_ stable.

_Do you feel?_

You stare at him for so long the sight begins to lose meaning. As your vision begins to blur you find yourself absurdly wondering how he eats and what happens if he has to use the load gaper. Probably some sort of life support system, you figure, built by whoever the fuck made this whole setup in the first place. You’d like to know who that was. You’d like to rip their torso pillar out through their spinal crevice.

_I’m sorry._

Your eyes well up inexplicably— _they always say that we’re too dangerous that we should be rounded up and culled like yellowgreens that they could find better uses for our powers—_ and soon tears are running down your cheeks. Closing your eyes you let out a slow, controlled breath, however the next one you take catches in your throat and you can’t steady it again. The next thing you know your face is pressed against your knees and you’re sobbing like a wriggler, hugging yourself tightly as your body shakes.

_I’m so sorry._

You wish you _could_ forget. You wish you could go back to your hive and your lusus, back to bitching to your friends about the bureau and trying to decide what you were going to do with your life when they inevitably turned you down. You wish you’d never stepped foot in this block, that you’d told her no and had left without ever seeing him, _but he would still be here and he’d still be trapped and alone he needs my help he needs me he needs me he needs me_

“H-hello?”

“Gaaahh!” You jerk back against the wall, startled just about out of your skin at the voice. There, standing hesitantly in the doorway, is the blueblood who had been your escort when you arrived on the ship. He jumps slightly when you yell and retreats a step out of the block, embarrassment etched into his face.

“Apologies! I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Fucking hell.” You place a hand over your blood pusher which feels like it’s about to jump right out of your chest cavity, and hastily wipe your eyes. “I didn’t think anyone else was allowed down here.”

“Oh, no one is.” He steps forward again, fidgeting with his hands like he doesn’t quite know what to do with them. “I’m only here until tomorrow night. I’m supposed to be packing my things to leave while we’re still at port, but I, ah… I wanted to see him one last time.”

Your pulse has just about returned to normal; getting to your feet you shake yourself off and put on what you hope is your serious face, but your eyes are still bloodshot and puffy so you doubt it has the same affect. “You’re the technomechanic, aren’t you? The one who thought it might be uh… a biological problem.”

“Yes.” He smiles somewhat timidly. “I suggested that her Majesty might look into a mediculler or a psionic expert. It seems she found both.”

You bark out a laugh. “Oh I’m hardly a mediculler. Psionic expert, maybe, but I’m not an official surgeologist. Not sure I ever will be.”

He tilts his head at you inquisitively. “It seems to me that having this job right now makes it official.”

…oh.

Oh _damn_.

The realization of that crashes down on you unexpectedly and you blink, suddenly in complete awe of yourself. You’re a fucking neuro-surgeologist. Quite possibly the first ever of your blood color, or _any_ color below olive. It may have happened in the weirdest of ways, and you may not be able to tell a soul, but _you fucking made it_.

“Shit, you’re _right_.”

“Well, congratulations.”

“Thanks, I guess. Damn.” It doesn’t quite feel real yet—you aren’t sure if it ever will—but that doesn’t stop you from being _immensely_ pleased with yourself. “Hemo-segregated career bureau can suck it.”

He doesn’t have anything to say to that. Considering his position you have a feeling you may have just said something offensive; falling silent, both of your gazes are drawn back to the figure encased in biowires. It’s almost impossible to be in the control block and _not_ look at him—his presence, hell his very _existence_ , is overpowering, drowning out anyone else nearby. Your eyes follow the sparks of yellow as they travel up to the ceiling, exposed bolts of raw power jittering along the cable. You’re not sure how this is supposed to look (something in your heart clenches tightly at the thought that this is _supposed to be_ at all) but you’re fairly certain the energy is meant to be contained inside of the wires rather than leaking to the outside. Technology isn’t your expertise; you can only hope that whatever is wrong with his pan _is_.

After a long moment the cerulean blood speaks softly. “What do you make of him?”

What you make of him is that he shouldn’t exist, at least not like this. Considering the number of sweeps he’s been with the Empress plus adding on any amount of additional sweeps for the time before that, it’s possible he shouldn’t even be alive anymore. He’s old and stretched out far beyond anything one troll could ever physically do without aid, living on for the sole purpose of powering this vessel. A braver troll than you would cut him down and let him die.

If you spend enough time in this block you just might become a braver troll.

You probably shouldn’t say that though. Instead, you mention another thing that’s bothering you about him.

“I’m trying to figure out if he’s a levitas type or a mage type psychic.” You continue observing the yellow sparks, mentally categorizing their behavior. “The color of his psi suggests levitas, however blue and red have always been associated with mages or blitz psionics. I can’t make sense of it.”

He looks at you as if you just spoke a completely foreign language.

Your face instantly heats up. That’s right, you aren’t in your circle of psionically-gifted trolls anymore—you’re in a new world of trolls much cooler blooded than you. It would be ridiculous to assume they would know or care about the same things.

“Sorry. I’m a psi geek.”

He smiles slightly. “I would hope that you’d be knowledgeable in the subject, seeing as it _is_ your specialty.”

“Only out of necessity,” you mutter, looking away at a bundle of cables hanging from the wall. A beat of awkward, embarrassed silence passes between you.

“What, ah… do you mean by type?” He sounds just about as awkward as you feel, and you can’t tell if he’s genuinely interested or if he’s trying to indulge you by feigning interest. He seems overall to be fairly demure for a blue blood but you wouldn’t put it past him; ceruleans and indigos are _always_ coddling, as if culling was some kind of competition and whoever pampers the largest number of lowbloods wins a special spot in the afterlife. They’re two of the most sickening castes, surpassed only by the royal-Vs who treat the act of culling as though they’ve been personally victimized by it.

Not that you’re bitter or anything.

Sighing softly you give in and turn back to him, holding up a hand with all five fingers outstretched. “There are five types of psionics. Type one, or levitas—” you touch one finger, “—is presented in either white or your blood color. It’s basic kinesis, the ability to pick something up and move it. It’s also sensory, so like, if you pick up a desk you can feel the shape of the desk.” You pause there, looking for any sign of indulgence on his face, however he seems to be actually interested in what you’re saying. Feeling a bit more confident, you continue.

“Type two is the mage.” You switch to the next finger. “They have the same abilities as the type ones but they also have offensive powers. Mages are generally the most powerful psionics, their powers present themselves in either blue or red. You can also see it in their eyes, they glow.

“Type three is blitz, it’s basically type two without the levitas abilities. They’re, um… often unstable.” You stop and wet your lips, mouth suddenly dry. “They’re also red or blue, and, uh…” Blinking you look away from him, taking a shaky breath. “Anyway, type four—”

“If you aren’t comfortable you don’t have to tell me.” He interrupts for the first time and you take a deep breath, letting it out slowly.

“It’s just… growing up in a lawnring full of psi-capable trolls, with neighbors who have powers that are stronger than they are… you lose friends sometimes.” You swallow. “The type threes, they can be volatile. I don’t know of many who’ve survived more than ten or eleven sweeps. Those that have are mostly burnt out and can’t use their powers anymore.”

A look of concern comes over his face, and for once you don’t feel like it’s misplaced. “That’s terrible. Nothing is done to help them?”

You shrug. “We do what we can, but there’s not much that _can_ be done if your thinkpan isn’t big enough for your incredibly destructive psychic powers.”

“But, surely they could be culled and taken—”

You make such a noise of indignation that he stops mid-sentence. “Culled?? By who, your caste? Five minutes ago you knew _nothing_ about psionics, how the hell do you expect to take care of someone who _does_ understand and _still can’t control it??_ ”

He flinches slightly and stammers, taken aback. “I-I just…”

“This is the problem with the entire culling system, you highbloods with all your good intentions go poking around in situations that you know _nothing_ about.” It’s coming up unstoppably now, all of the aggravation and frustration that you’ve always felt and have never before been able to voice to someone higher on the spectrum than you. The barriers had cracked the moment you walked into this block; now that you aren’t speaking to the Empress herself (your pan has at least some level of self-preservation) they’ve broken down entirely.

“Half of the time you actually manage to make things _worse_ than they were before, but that doesn’t fucking matter because at least you can pat yourself on the back for being a good upstanding citizen who helped someone ‘beneath’ you.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Do you know why I’ve been training to become a mediculler?” To his credit he simply shakes his head. “There is no one in the entire field of neuro-surgeology who knows a damn thing about psi and how our pans work. There is _no one_ we can go to if we’re about to burn out, if something’s wrong and we need help. They would just send us to the culling agency, and we would fucking _die_.”

You hesitate a moment, unsure if you want to mention what’s been at the forefront of your mind ever since you first said the word “blitz”, but it just feels so damn _good_ to get all of this out after so many sweeps that it slips out before you can stop it.

“My moirail tore himself apart because no one could help him.”

A long silence follows, during which you realize you’re fighting back tears again. This time the hum of excess energy in the block is a comfort, a feeling reminiscent of your hive and your lawnring, everything that is familiar to you. Even the terrifying troll in the wires is oddly comforting, his presence and situation setting a terrible example of just how badly your society handles anyone like you.

You had tried so hard to help him. For a while you actually had—sharing a hive, pulling him back down to a simmer every time he started overclocking. You were the shaky stabilizer in his exceedingly turbulent world, and even though it still ended the way it was always going to you feel somewhat less useless knowing that he lived for at least half a sweep longer than he would have without you.

The silence lasts for so long that it starts becoming awkward again. You’ve begin examining the way the wires burrow into skin before the blueblood finally speaks, almost too softly for you to hear.

“I’m sorry.”

You huff. “Nothing you could’ve done about it.”

“I’m sorry for my presumptuousness.” Sparing him a glance you notice that he’s removed his goggles for the first time. There’s a look of genuine humbleness in his eyes as he continues. “You’re completely correct, I know nothing about what it’s like to be a warmer caste. Especially one with your abilities. I don’t know that it means anything or if it, ah, even matters seeing as this will likely be the only time we ever speak, but… I am sorry. And I would like to hear more if you’re willing to tell me.”

Seconds pass, and you exhale slowly. “What more do you want to know?”

“You stated there were five types. I’d be interested in hearing about the final two, and also… which type you are.”

“I’m a four.” You feel steady again, the threat of tears having mostly subsided. “Aegis. We’re… a little different. Similar to the mages who have both type one and three abilities, except ours is more hybridized, and defensive rather than offensive. We’re basically shields; we can contain and deflect blitz-type powers and control them to a certain extent. It’s also sensory like levitas, so we can feel through our psi.”

“That sounds extremely useful.” He sounds impressed. You wonder how much of that is guilt. “How does it present itself?”

“Green. You can’t usually see it in our eyes unless we’re using it.” A corner of your mouth turns up. “If you’re still around when I get to poking at him you might see a bit of a lightshow.”

He smiles tentatively back at you. “That would be fascinating.”

“Type fives are aberrants, basically anything not covered by the first four types. It can range anywhere from telepathic abilities to mind control. It doesn’t really present in any particular way, other than being really damn creepy. I’ve heard of it being present in higher castes sometimes but I don’t know how common it is. You can also have an aberrant ability in addition to one of the other types since it comes from a different part of the cranial lobe.”

The look in his eyes almost seems like genuine admiration. “You are a font of incredibly interesting knowledge.”

“Heh, not really. I’ve mentioned that I studied this, right? It’s about the only interesting knowledge I have.”

“It’s still fascinating. I’ve never heard any of this before.”

“I imagine not.” Your hands tuck themselves away into your jacket pockets and you peer curiously at the B110n11c’s helmet. After a moment you say in a light voice, “We had a whole argument and I don’t know your name. I usually like to know the people I fight with.”

Glancing over you catch a look of surprise, as though you caught him off guard. He then chuckles and offers a gloved hand to you. “Machinist Devcore.”

“Tesela, as you already know.” You reach out and shake his hand. “I haven’t chosen a name yet.”

“Ah, you still have a sweep before you need to.” He gestures towards the figure. “Who knows, perhaps working with him will inspire you.”

“Perhaps.”

You’re starting to feel a little more comfortable in the engine block, which is a good thing as it’s where you’re going to be spending the majority of your time for at least the next week. The troll in the wires still scares the hell out of you, however having someone else there with you who is privy to the secret (and who isn’t the Empress) has made the atmosphere much easier to breathe in.

“So Devcore…” You straighten up into what you hope is a professional stance. Time to get this show on the damn road, you guess. “What can you tell me about him?”

“Honestly, not a great deal.” His demeanor shifts, subtly but enough for you to notice it. You’re entering his area of expertise now and it’s obvious within seconds that he’s a great deal more comfortable with this subject than culling politics.

“The underlying structure is rather outdated, I would say by nearly 30 sweeps. The rest of it though…” He begins moving as he talks, handling the biowires with excessive care. “It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before. Of course, all technology is at least semi-organic, it isn’t a big leap to form a connection between a computer and a lifeform, but the way in which this was implemented… whoever developed it was a technical genius.”

“Yeah, they deserve a fucking reward.” You’re hesitant to step closer, even though you know you’re eventually going to have to get your hands on him. “Can we remove his helmet?”

“I don’t believe so.” Devcore obviously has no qualms in handling him; he grips one of the wire clusters that feed into the back of the helmet and your stomach drops slightly as the psionic’s head is jostled by the movement. “If I were to venture a guess I’d say the helmet was the first piece developed. His power center was connected first—the helmet may have served as an easy way to connect and disconnect him. I assume once that was working they completed the other connections directly.”

“So if we remove it… we disconnect him.” You feel a faint flutter of hope at that thought. Fixing him may be your prime goal, but you’d be lying if you said you didn’t want to rescue him from the rig entirely. For a brief moment you entertain a wild idea that you’ll detach him and he’ll just get right up and walk away, no harm done. _Right, and then we’ll sprout wings and fly off into the sunrise together. Get a fucking grip, Tes._

“I don’t think it’s that simple anymore. He’s been part of the system for too long, if we pull him from it forcibly he’ll most likely die.” And with that all of your fantasies crash to the ground in a broken, wingless heap. Devcore’s handling the helmet itself now; you clench your fists and finally make yourself step forward so that you can get a better look. The helmet—likely shining gold at one point—is dull and worn, albeit not as filthy as the rest of him, most likely due to it having been touched by every machinist who’s ever examined him. The visor covering the top half of his face is red and blue like the wires; hesitantly you reach out and run the very tip of one finger over the edge of it.

“Are you still trying to determine what ‘type’ he is?” Devcore asks. You frown.

“Well his psi is yellow, which tells me he’s probably a levitas type, but the red and blue make me think he could be a mage. I’ve heard of mages blowing out their offensive powers and basically becoming levitas psychics. Maybe that’s what happened to him.”

Glancing up at the wires you furrow your brow in frustration. “I’ve never heard of a mage being _both_ red and blue though, they’re always either one or the other. So this guy’s either dual powered or he’s just a plain old type one who wishes he was a hell of a lot cooler.”

“Well you know,” He gestures towards the double sets of horns protruding from the helmet. “It wouldn’t be the only thing he has two of.”

The horn mutation was something you had noticed but had thus far overlooked due to the overwhelming retching horror of the rest of him. Now that you are looking, however, you wonder just how deep the mutation goes. “If I could see his eyes I could tell for sure. A burnt out mage would be blind, possibly scarred.”

“Well, we may be able to detach the visor.” Nimble gloved hands slide over the red and blue glass, feeling underneath around the edges before a tool you don’t recognize suddenly appears out of nowhere. You stand back and watch the blueblood as he gingerly works at it; it takes a few minutes but eventually the visor pops off into his hand, and you’re presented with the sight of a fuckton of hair.

“Holy hell.” You chuckle at the black curls covering half of his face; it’s unruly but obviously cut, as if someone has been trimming his hair around the edges of his helmet. A mental image of the Empress sitting in his lap cutting his hair rises up in your thinkpan and you find yourself simultaneously amused and somewhat disturbed; from the way she’d been looking at him earlier you have your doubts that she would ever let anyone else near him for anything other than strictly professional reasons.

Your hand is trembling as you reach out to push his hair out of his eyes. Touching him—not his helmet but him directly—sends an odd feeling through you, one that is quickly replaced with a renewed desire to empty all of the contents of your stomach onto the floor once you catch sight of his eyes.

The left eye is blue but isn’t glowing as you would expect, being simply dull and glassy.

The right eye is red and is hanging approximately an inch from its socket, forced out of place by wires burrowing so thickly inside his cranial cavity that you can see them through the hole.

“Oh my fucking _god_.”

You stumble back to collect yourself; Devcore is already in there, holding the psionic’s chin and angling his face to get a better view. He taps at the dangling red eye and you have to look away before you legitimately are sick.

“They’re bionic.” He sounds in awe, as if this discovery just made his whole night. “He has bionic eyes. Probably had them installed before he was here. Definitely not crafted by the same person who designed this engine block, although the craftsmanship is _superb_.”

“ _The B110n11c_. Jegus hell.” You still can’t bring yourself to look at him again, fake eyes or not.

“Yes, he very well may have had that title before being installed in the ship.”

“Well if he has no eyes then he probably is a burnt out mage.” Steeling yourself you look at him again; you’re better prepared this time but it’s still a shock to see, and you make up your mind pretty quickly that you don’t want to look at it for much longer.

“Alright, get back.” You approach him again and hover awkwardly for a moment, trying to figure out the easiest way to handle this. You don’t have any mediculler tools with you, and even if you did you wouldn’t be able to use them while the helmet is in place. Fortunately there’s another method you can use, one that you’re uniquely qualified for.

Standing before him you slide your hands over the sides of his face; there’s just barely enough space for you to maneuver them underneath the helmet to grip the sides of his head, and you feel another twinge of pity when you realize just how skeletal he is. You feel around blindly for a moment, making sure you’re in the right place, before speaking to the machinist again. “Do you think you could fix his eye if the wires are out of the way?”

“Um, it would depend on if the wiring is damaged internally.” Looking over you see Devcore wringing his hands again nervously. “I can try though, but, do remember that I’m not technically supposed to be here anymore. You’re here now, for him, I’m meant to leave the ship.”

“Oh. Right.” You know that, and yet… you’re not entirely sure what you think about the idea of being down here alone again. Having to figure out what all of these wires are doing on your own doesn’t exactly sound like a lawnmeal either—you’ve never been tech-savvy, and even though the technology in this case is dealing with something you understand you still don’t quite trust yourself with it.

“Do you want to leave?” You’ve forgotten for the moment what you were doing, hands still buried in the psionic’s hair. “I mean, if you didn’t have to go, would you want to stay?”

He thinks on that for a moment, arms crossed over his chest contemplatively. “I wouldn’t be opposed to staying if I had reason to, and permission to remain onboard obviously. I admit it will be difficult to leave him without knowing how the situation is resolved.”

“Maybe we can convince her to let you stay then.”

“I’m not so sure. Besides, I don’t see myself being very useful to you.”

“Seriously? Look, you see this part of him I’ve got my prongs on right now?” You nod towards the psionic’s head. “It’s the only thing in this room I understand. All the rest of this?” You jerk your head towards the cables. “I don’t have a fucking _clue_ how this stuff works. You may not have been able to fix him by yourself without a mediculler, but I’m not sure if I’ll be able to do any better without a technomechanic.”

He swallows. “Her Majesty may not agree.”

“Her Majesty may need to be a bit more flexible if she wants her engine fixed.” You turn back to the troll in your hands; focusing on him you feel your power begin to ramp up, small, controlled bolts of it wrapping around your fingers. A steady, familiar pulse starts up behind your eyes, and they begin to shine bright green.

“Let’s just try to fix his eyes right now. We’re at port for a week, that should at least be enough time for you to help me with that.”

Out of the corner of your eye you see him nod. “Alright. I’ll stay for the week.”

“Great.” Turning your attention inward you begin to send tendrils of green energy into the B110n11c’s cranial cavity. “Now let’s see what’s going on in his thinkpan.”


End file.
